


Rhyme or Reason

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:36:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1776022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Mereth Aderthad, Daeron and Maglor attempt to have a serious discussion. Unfortunately dancing, impromptu poetry and drunken cousins tend to get in the way of such things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rhyme or Reason

“The main hall at Menegroth… now that is something you might find interesting actually,” Daeron was saying. “I managed to get hold of the original plans, and the thought put into the acoustics of the ceiling is simply astounding.” The two of them sat at a small table beside the temporary dance floor and the cluster of pavilions that had been erected, talking animatedly, their drinks and the platter of food forgotten for the moment.

“Really?” said Macalaurë, fascinated. “In what way?”

 

“The vaulting is such that sounds are concentrated at a particular point; the place where the King has his throne. I can only think it was deliberate, but I cannot make out all the Khuzdul annotations on the architectural drawings. I think I will need to make a study of the language, if I can. Anyway, the musicians’ gallery seems to be very deliberately placed too, and there are huge stone panels with shallow carvings that naïvely appear to be simply decorative, but the way they  _ring_  with sound…”

“We had something that sounds similar in the concert hall in Tirion” said Macalaurë, his eyes far away as he remembered, “soundboards, or reflectors for the sound, except they were wooden and suspended from the ceiling…”

“Reflectors!” said Daeron, grinning. “Exactly.”

“It sounds fascinating” said Macalaurë, quite sincerely. “The Gap is a beautiful land, but severely lacking in beautiful buildings, as yet. Fortifications we have plenty of, and we’ve certainly advanced beyond the days of that makeshift and rather slapdash little settlement on the shores of Lake Mithrim” - he grimaced – “but I believe that one day we will have peace, and then I will make it beautiful. I’m sure we can learn from Doriath, although the land is very different of course. But I’m imagining little villages will grow up in the valley between the rivers, a thriving cultural life like you have, lights and music in the streets at night - ”

“There you two are!” interrupted a voice from behind them, as Daeron was rummaging in his pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil, “come on, you can have your  _serious discussion_  later. The two of you are needed in the next dance!”

Macalaurë looked up to see Findaráto standing before them, flanked by Irissë, Artanis, Lalwendë, Elenniel and a slightly sheepish looking Mablung. “Daeron was telling me about Menegroth. We have days of dances ahead of us before this feast is over” Macalaurë protested.

Irissë ignored his words completely, looking between the two of them. “We need two more to complete our set for this dance” she said, in a tone that did not invite argument.

“Can’t you go find Nelyo and Finno? I’m sure they would appreciate it more.”

“They’ve disappeared off somewhere, surprisingly enough” said Artanis, rolling her eyes.

“Come on!” said Findaráto, slurring his words a little, and taking a sip of wine from his cup. He gestured expansively. “Where’s the fun to you two? Daeron of Doriath, I am honoured to make your acquaintance - ” he gave a deep, sweeping bow, and then shook Daeron’s hand emphatically,  “ – but you must know that my cousin is choosing to be - ” he hiccupped, “ - so  _very_  boring today. Come dance. We’ve even managed to persuade your fellow delegate Mablung to join in, so there’s really no excuse.”

Mablung smiled self-consciously as Findaráto clapped him on the shoulder. “They’re quite persuasive actually, these Golodhrim, when it come to dancing” said Mablung, shrugging.

“Alright” said Daeron. “Maglor, I’ll draw you a plan of the hall later.”

Elenniel laughed, slipping her arm through Lalwendë’s. “You can always carry on the conversation while dancing” she said. “You could, I don’t know, talk about your homelands in perfect rhyme.”

Lalwendë smiled. “That would indeed make things more interesting, for all of us.”

Suddenly, Findaráto grinned. “Actually, I challenge you both to do just that. Think of it as a friendly competition.” He swayed a little. “From now until midnight, you both have to talk only in rhyme.”

“You’re drunk, Ingo.”

“Why yes, I should say so - ”

“I accept that challenge” interrupted Daeron, looking at Macalaurë with a mischievous smile. “Dancing and rhyming, two things I pride myself in, I warn you. Maglor? What do you say to that?”

Everyone was looking at him. Macalaurë gave an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”

———-

The dance was one that Macalaurë knew well, a Ñoldorin dance from the ballrooms of Tirion, although it was significantly faster now, and set to the music of the brightly painted sets of wooden pipes that the Nandor made. Making a mental note to ask to try playing the pipes before the feast ended, Macalaurë turned his attention back to the set of dancers. The dance was for sets of eight, four male and four female, and had once grown popular with the supporters of the house of Fëanáro, due only - as far as Macalaurë could see - to the vaguely eight-pointed star shaped arrangement of the dancers. Now though, he thought, it must have been scrubbed of all political significance for it to be appropriate here. He wondered briefly how many Ñoldorin cultural changes he had entirely missed while he had been building fortifications in the east. It was being danced to a different tune, one of the Nandorin folk songs he had heard being played when he had last stayed with Ambarussa in Ossiriand, and yet the steps were the same. The dance required no partners as such, and each participant danced with every other, weaving complicated and beautiful paths through one another’s arms if the dance was performed correctly.

However, Macalaurë thought ruefully, it did not look likely to be performed correctly on this occasion. Findaráto was drunk and the others probably were too, although admittedly slightly less so, and Mablung and Daeron must surely not know the steps. Coupled with the fact that the tempo was several times too fast…

“This music is - ” he began, but Irissë raised an eyebrow, interrupting him.   
“Macalaurë, remember what you promised! Not five minutes ago, too.”

He rolled his eyes as the dancers bowed to the circle and the music began in earnest.

“This music is completely wrong,  
For such a stately dance,  
I would have picked a different song,  
If given half a chance.” 

He stepped forward and spun his first partner by the arm, who happened to be Artanis. She gave him a sweet smile. “Oh, stop complaining Macalaurë. Anyway, it’s Daeron’s turn.”

They all looked expectantly at Daeron, who was steadying himself and Findaráto after the other had knocked into him.

“I think fits quite passing well,  
Though different from the norm,  
But as to that I cannot tell,  
I know a different form.” 

Macalaurë and Daeron spun past each other, on Lalwendë and Mablung’s arms respectively. Macalaurë smiled.

“Pray tell me then, in Thingol’s halls,  
What sound could be so fair,  
To echo off those ringing walls,  
And pass for music there?”

Artanis laughed as she spun by in a swirl of green silk with Irissë on her arm, but Daeron looked serene as he began to speak again. 

“My noble friend, I’m glad you ask.  
To answer, I’m well placed.  
I’ll take upon myself the task  
Of teaching you good taste.”

Findaráto let out a whoop of laughter, but Artanis shushed him with an elbow to the ribs as they spun in a circle, for Daeron was still speaking.

“I play the flute primarily,  
Or raise my voice in song,  
While pipes and lutes play merrily  
Before the dancing throng.  
And songs to break the hardest heart  
Or ballads of lost love,  
Or histories of which we’re part  
Ring in the vault above.”

Macalaurë, meanwhile, was smiling indulgently, clearing his throat deliberately and finishing his spin with Irissë on his arm before replying.

“Such songs our people also make,  
I know, I wrote a few,  
I cannot think of anything  
That I should rather do.  
Our minstrels play the bells, the lyre,  
Our voices yet akin,  
To those that knew the secret fire,  
And saw the world begin.”

Daeron let out a quiet laugh, even as the others raised their eyebrows in disbelief at Macalaurë’s words, while the dance returned to its beginning. The music did not cease though, but began again, the elaborate cycle of pairs meeting and spinning and starting all over again, even as Daeron answered. 

“You make a most hubristic boast;  
And it occurs to me,  
The Powers may begrudge your host  
This touch of blasphemy.  
I wonder, did you never guess,  
A most pretentious air  
Like this might land you in a mess  
Or did you just not care?” 

Lalwendë broke step and looked as if she would interrupt, but Macalaurë was too quick for her, his face curving into a smirk, not missing a beat. 

“It seems in terms of rhetoric  
Iathrim have no lack,  
And have perfected that old trick,  
The personal attack.”

Daeron responded with a raised eyebrow, as he and Macalaurë spun each other in the centre of the circle. The music was speeding up now, the rhythm more insistent, and Artanis began to clap in time while she was dancing, the others following her lead. Daeron made a small sound as if clearing his throat before speaking.

“You’re right, of course, for music was  
The topic of debate - ”

But he broke off, for at that moment several things happened at once. The musicians played the final bars, a high trilling flourish, the signal for the dancers to leap, step and end up back in their starting places. At that same moment, Findaráto stepped on the hem of Artanis’ dress, and, losing his balance with a yell of alarm, flung an arm out wide, hitting Mablung in the face. Even as Mablung gave a cry, Findaráto himself was falling towards Irissë, who managed to dart out of the way… only trip over her own feet and fall hard against Daeron, sending him stumbling sideways into Lalwendë, who grasped at Elenniel’s hand for support, but only managed to grab Macalaurë’s sleeve, pulling him to the ground… after a surprisingly brief moment of cursing, squawks and tussling to retain some semblance of dignity, all eight dancers found themselves in a heap on the floor.

Lalwendë was the first to recover and extricate herself from the squirming tangle of limbs and coloured silks that their neat octagon of dancers had so speedily become. “Everyone alright?” She asked, laughing a little and helping Irissë free the corner of her dress from where it had become hopelessly entangled in the buckles on Daeron’s boots. Findaráto sat up, groaning and rubbing his temple, looking confused and flustered, but not obviously hurt. “Ugh… I’m sure that’s not how that dance is supposed to end.”

“Ingo, I’m afraid we’re not in - ” began Macalaurë, with a quick smile, before he was interrupted by Irissë.

“Ah! Cousin, I’m surprised at you! Have you forgotten your solemn promise already?”

Macalaurë gave a pained sigh, but there was a glint in his eye.

“Why not at all, the game still stands  
I don’t plan to give in.  
The moon is young, we have all night,  
And I still mean to win.  
And, dare I say it, at the least  
Our guests from wood and vale,  
Can tell their folk back in the east  
An interesting tale.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story has an illustration to go with it by the wonderful likes-drawing-elves on Tumblr! The drawing can be found here: http://likes-drawing-elves.tumblr.com/post/88155163677/maglor-and-daeron-discussing-architectural-details


End file.
